disclaimer: disclaimed.
dedication: to Levi or Rivaille or Raviolli, whatever, because he's such an awesome bitch. and to tears, because when my life absolutely sucks they seem to make it at least a little bit better.
notes: alright, so perhaps someone drugged my tea and i got high enough to write this shit. it's the only explanation because, i mean, Eren and Levi as generals for a titan army? what the fu—
notes2: i didn't know which music i would use for this story until i kind of let my ipod on shuffle and then Cosmic Love from Florence + the Machine came on and oh my god, it was fucking destiny because the lyrics are perfect and that's the best band ever. okay? okay, be right back, i'm gonna drown in my own tears.
notes3: i don't want whining later on, so i've got to say — this is going to take a while to write and update. what can i say, i'm a busy bitch, and writing is not my priority. so sorry — but not so. but i still love you all, my darlings :)

chapter title: pαrα—diSe lοs†
summary: the worst of humanity hides in the risers, the shining stars rot away in the dirt. in a world where no one saved Mikasa that day, Eren leads a titan army. -—darker characters

—

.

.

.

.

love the light for it shows the way
but endure the darkness for it shows the stars

.˙. ¤ .˙.

.˙.˙.

˙.˙

. qu i e † chamb e r — no i s γ he a r † .

.˙.

.˙.˙.

The stars, the moon
They have all been blown out
You left me in the dark
No dawn, no day
I'm always in this twilight
In the shadow of your heart
—Florence + the Machine

˙.˙.˙

˙.˙

. † .

Green eyes, alight and burning like the leaves of a forest trapped amidst a fire. Burning eyes, and a deep laughter that sounds like shadows and madness would sound, and the fear — oh the fear, coiling in her stomach like a viper ready to strike and freezing her blood as it runs, so cold, and she just wants out, to get out and run and—

"Hush," he says.

Mikasa opens her eyes.

The sky over the battlefield is bloodied red when she wakes that evening. She sits up from her cot, body stiff and aching all over, and stares blankly at the wall of her tent, trying to remember.

Another night of fighting then. Another night of killing — and Mikasa doesn't care what the higher ups say —; that was what this was. They fight and maim and kill things who once were humans, with lives and loves and families, just like them. They rip apart bodies, rejoice in the hot blood that spurts, and smile as if innocence hasn't died.

As if they aren't murderers.

Another night of fighting, and Mikasa is going to be sent to the front lines, because she's strong and skillful and a beacon of hope and a fighter.

In the past, she didn't use to be one — didn't need to be.

That was a long time ago.

"Mi–Mikasa..."

Armin staggers in, skin a sickly pale and clothes shredded, a gash up his thigh gushing blood nonstop. He drags Sasha behind him, who seems to be out cold.

"Armin," Mikasa says in a worried tone, rushing over to help her friend. "What happened?"

Her arms take away the weight of Sasha's limp body, and Armin collapses ungracefully to the ground in his relief.

"Five Class Seven and t–two Fourteen," he gasps, panting — trembling. "We were s–scouting the east border when— it was so sudden; one moment nothing, and then, just like that, they were everywhere."

Mikasa's face is impassive, but the blonde can read the worry in her charcoal orbs.

"Don't worry," Armin says, trying to smile but failing to do so, "I—I'm okay. Sasha's the one who— she needs help. Her head— oh god, she's bleeding so much—"

"Armin…"

"—and I don't know how to help her, and Connie and Jean are— oh god, Connie and Jean—"

"Armin!" Mikasa barks, and (almost) regrets it when the look he gives her screams about pain and utter hopelessness — and of all the things to feel, god dammit. "Please, calm down," she orders. "You're bleeding."

"No! I mean," Armin shudders, trying to regain his breathing. The cool air seems to burn his lungs. "I'm f–fine, I just—"

Mikasa forces the blonde–haired boy to sit on her cot, her grip like steel on his wrists. She can't help but notice the blood that stains her clothes and her hands and her soul.

She's tainted beyond salvation, but she doesn't want to be saved.

Mikasa narrows her eyes. "Jean and Connie are strong, and Sasha just has a cut on her forehead. But you — you are not fine, Armin. This blood," she says, rubbing the fluid between two fingers, and the boy flinches, "is not an arterial one, but if I don't stop the flow and stitch it immediately, you're going to bleed to death. Do you understand?"

Armin's face drains of its color, but he nods. Mikasa quickly gathers the supplies to start treating his injury, cutting the left leg of his pants with a pocketknife and cleaning his wound. She actually fells sorry for her friend because, even if the thread and needle will save his life, it doesn't mean it's not going to be painful.

Some say it hurts too much to die, but really — it hurts a lot more to keep living.

"Hold on. This is going to hurt."

Armin pales even further, but he doesn't make any other sound as Mikasa sews his skin together.

His hands still clench tightly — just like her heart.

"How did Sasha get hurt?" Mikasa asks, more in sake of distracting her friend than for being concerned about potato girl.

"She hit her head when Connie tried to stop her from… from—"

"Being Sasha."

And for a second, Armin smiles.

They both grow quiet after that, staring at each other with tired eyes. Mikasa can't help but exhale.

It has been such a long war.

Mikasa checks Sasha's temperature. Her heart rate is normal and she does not seem to have a concussion. Her skin is a little pale, though that is to be expected. "She's alright. If anything changes—"

"I know," says Armin, for the first time sounding like the soldier he is. "Take her to the healers. It's just— I should have seen them coming! I'm so angry at myself; at least I should have had a contingence plan to—"

Mikasa quietly slips from the tent even as Armin keeps berating himself. It's not that she doesn't care — Armin is the best strategist in their squad, and a genius in his own way — but she doesn't have the time.

The flaps of the tent close behind her, muffling the one–sided conversation from inside. Mikasa looks towards the horizon. The setting sun is blazed red–gold, sinking behind the distant fortress that is Wall Maria. The last rays stretch through the sky; twisted roots of an ancient tree seeking sustenance. Seeking water and life in this wasteland bereft of everything but blood and death.

There is a distant roar. Mikasa sets her jaw.

The fighting has begun.

…

…

. † .

She runs. She runs until her muscles burn and her veins pump poisoned blood, and when she cannot take it anymore, she runs some more.

She is a Riser — a soldier.

She can do this.

Mikasa runs, dancing in and out of the lines of the bodies sprawled on the ground. The dirt is barren and caked with blood, and her boots squelch the vermillion mud. Maneuvering herself amid the sea of dead, she thinks it funny that the enemy, once defeated, dissolves in nothing but boiling flesh and steam. It almost looks like the only casualties in this war are their own.

The forest of giant trees is just ahead of her. Mikasa can already feel the leaves as she flies amidst the leafy canopies, a rush of gas and steel and limbs. She can almost taste the freedom — then someone screams.

"GET DOWN!"

Mikasa hits the ground hard, the impact reverberating on her very bones. She presses her face into the dirt, and waits.

The ground rumbles.

She grits her teeth.

The stars glow bright, and the earth bursts into the sky. There are screams and shouts echoing all over, the roar of titans and the scent of despair thick in the air. Mikasa springs from the ground. She doesn't have enough time dammit, but maybe, maybe, if she runs a little faster, enough to help the front lines—

A body comes flying from the right, and Mikasa whirls, barely managing to catch the girl. The impact is hard and Mikasa falls a few steps behind — but there's not much weight to hold onto when there is only half of the girl left.

"Water," she whispers. "Water, please—"

"Shhh. You did well," Mikasa says, pushing the blonde hair out of her face. "Just rest."

The girl spasms, hacking, wet coughs shaking her entire frame. There are no legs or hips, but there is enough fear and blood running on her lips.

Mikasa looks with sad eyes as the girl's lids flutter.

"Sleep now."

The girl sleeps.

Mikasa sets her down. Her hands are soaked red and shaking, and she has to fight not to vomit. Now is not the time to be weak. She thinks of Armin and Sasha back in her little tent, weak and bleeding and hoping that everyone comes back alive.

What a miracle that would be.

The trees loom over her, dark and deep and safe. The sky slowly turns into purple–blue, but the lack of light doesn't scare her. If anything, Mikasa dreads when the sun will come up, shining bright and blinding, and the fight will start anew.

(oh but the fight never truly ends, darling)

"I need to get higher." Mikasa murmurs, and sets her gear to grapple the highest branch she can see. The gas propels her forward, and she breaks through the canopy of trees — arms and legs bent backwards — in a dazzling display of colors. Black and crimson, fuchsia and green and indigo, deep violet and the ivory of the stars. A kaleidoscope that would have taken Mikasa's breath away had she cared about it. But she doesn't.

There's not much to care for when everything around you just drops dead.

As it is, she just grapples the next branch and swings, letting herself go with the momentum, looking out across the battlefield strewn with broken bodies and broken bones. In this tiny moment, she loses herself in time and space, passing carcasses sizzling and turning into smoke just below and not even caring about it. Because she is a Riser.

And she can do this.

Mikasa stops and lands on the branch of a tree, just as the last ray of light sinks below the horizon.

And the world in plunged into darkness.

(it's time)

A unanimous roar sounds from beyond the forest. It is followed by a surge in violence on the ground, rumbling with the footsteps of the first Warriors. Because this is the life of soldiers, her life — being attacked by mindless titans during the day, and humans turned monsters at night.

(and the fight never truly stops)

There's the sound of steel against flesh, but the screams of the dying ring much louder on her ears. Mikasa almost winces. In truth, somewhere deep inside, her quiet, sweet self still resides. In that deep, gentle place, the Mikasa she used to be — naïve, good, nine and innocent — still exists.

And that Mikasa didn't like violence.

Eighteen–year–old Mikasa likes violence a lot more than nine–year-old Mikasa did.

The main difference is eighteen–year–old Mikasa doesn't hesitate to end a life if she needs to. Eighteen–year–old Mikasa isn't scared of being alone, of dying alone. Eighteen–year–old Mikasa can cut down a titan faster than anyone else she knows.

Eighteen–year–old Mikasa isn't afraid.

"Oh," says a voice, and Mikasa freezes. "So this is you, huh?"

She whips her head around, frantic and searching and she knows this voice.

"Up here," the voice says, and it almost sounds amused.

She looks up into the air.

A man stands there, staring at her from the nape of a fifteen meters titan — and how could she have missed him? He wears a black leather uniform, red scarf blowing with the wind; his hair wild and the color of chocolate — but the smile he gives her is anything but sweet. It makes her think of a wolf that has finally hunted its prey, a wolf that has won the race for survival.

And the prize may as well be her flesh.

The stranger jumps down from the titan, whose body slumps to the ground and starts to dissolve. Mikasa takes a step back, ready to draw her blades and run steel through muscle and heart — but she's pressed against the bark of the tree, caged between his arms before she can even do as much as twitch her fingers.

They stare at each other, quietly, trapped in their own little world — but then, Mikasa catches something that makes her blood run cold. It is not the lack of space between their bodies or the mischievous smile he's wearing or even the fact he's a Warrior — no. The thing that terrifies Mikasa is his eyes.

Green eyes.

Green and alight and burning like the leaves of a forest trapped amidst a fire.

"You." She spats.

"Hush," he says, and this can't be happening, it's not—

She looks at him through her bangs, hiding the flames scorching in her charcoal orbs. "Who are you?"

He chuckles, and there is something sick and twisted (and wrongwrongwrong) about it that sends chills down Mikasa's spine.

"Just a guy," he says, smile widening. "And I know who you happens to be, little Riser. They call you Ripper, don't they? The Bloody Ripper."

Mikasa stares at him impassively, but the words call up a long–festering wound. She is nine, and the children scream at the blood drenching her clothes. Ripper! Burn the Ripper! She is nine, a knife for cleaning fish clenched tightly in her hands. Ripper! Burn the Ripper! She is nine, and her parents' murderers lay at her feet, guts spilling on the floor. Ripper! Burn the Ripper! She is thirteen, and tasting the flavor of treason (it's bitter) as she runs a steel blade across Annie Leonhardt's chest, her companion — a fucking Warrior.

Ripper! Burn the Ripper!

Mikasa scowls. "Does it matter what they call me?"

"Nah," he says, studying her, "you're too cute to be a monster anyway."

Her eyes widen, and she can't help the heat rising on her cheeks. It's an uncontrollable reaction, left over from a time when any compliments she would receive were stashed away and cherished dear. But it's been too long, she's seen too much — and the blush sours into a sneer.

"I feel like I should be trying to kill you," Mikasa spits out.

"You probably should," he agrees. "But, you see, the thing is that I don't die so easily."

He flickers out of existence for a moment, and Mikasa grapples the next tree and swings herself away. She knows the gas she has left won't be enough to reach the battlefield, but if she just goes a little faster now, then she can—

"Hey, quit running away like that. It's annoying."

Mikasa screams in rage, maneuvering a sharp corner and swinging herself at him. Her attack is perfect and deadly and vicious, but when her blades impact against his hardened skin, all that is left is mild panic, and blunt and bended steel.

"Heh," he grins, though his eyes scream danger. Mikasa freezes. "You could have actually hurt me with that stunt of yours. That wouldn't be nice now, would it?"

There is a flare of heat and smoke and suddenly her gear is no more, smashed to little pieces, the cables snapping and the gas cylinder crushed, and—

Mikasa is falling.

She falls, and there is a second when she's not diving for the ground like an eagle for its prey, not falling to her death — but flying. She's trapped and free all at once, lost amidst the dark sky and her very own paradise, where there is no war or fights or deaths, not even spilled blood.

And then her paradise is lost.

She lands hard against muscle and warm skin, her breath leaving her lungs all at once. Her vision goes black for a moment, but when Mikasa feels the ground below her feet, she opens her eyes — only to stare at the glowing orbs of a titan.

Mikasa goes limp, and suddenly — suddenly, the stranger is there, holding her against his chest and his steady beating heart as the titan's body boils over and disappears.

"Got you," he grins, running his fingers through her hair.

She looks up and stares into bright green eyes, gleaming and burning true to something that makes her want to jump from a tree and fall (and dive and sink and die) all over again. She has to struggle not to squirm in his embrace — his touch is warm and makes her want to crawl out of her skin because this is wrong.

"Who are you?" She asks in a whisper.

"Just a guy," he murmurs in her ear, breath ghosting over her pale neck and sending a shiver down her spine. "I told you that."

"Yes," Mikasa spats disdainfully, grinding her teeth hard to not spit on his face. "But it would be nice to know the name of my killer."

He actually laughs, and it sounds exactly like shadows and madness would sound. Mikasa thinks she might be going crazy — and then dismisses the idea when she realizes she's already insane.

"Not going to kill you, little Riser. Got orders from bastard not to. Besides, you're far too interesting for that."

Mikasa takes in a deep breath, preparing herself to fight her way out. She doesn't know his name, doesn't even want to know his name. Knowing is giving him power, giving him an identity to go by — and she doesn't want to stare at his lifeless eyes later on and know what he was called.

Because she's going to kill him. She has to.

The Warrior spins her around like in a dance, grinning at her — and there's something wild and terrifying about it, something uncontrollable and sharp and capable of breaking her heart.

It chills her to the very bone.

He pulls her closer, brushing his nose along her cheek, and Mikasa stops.

The darkness starts — she thinks of Jean and Connie, bloodied and battle–worn, fighting and screaming and dying a little more inside each day. She thinks of Armin and Sasha, wounded in that little rugged tent, and realizes that she is probably never going to see any of them again. She is going to die, die — but she is not afraid. She only feels sorry (so sorry) that she hasn't even said goodbye.

And she's never going to.

The demon's mouth presses against her throat. "Hush," he says.

The darkness closes in.

"My name," he murmurs, "is Eren."

Mikasa closes her eyes, and tries not to think.

.˙.

.˙.˙.

And in the dark
I can hear your heartbeat
I tried to find the sound
But then it stopped
And I was in the darkness
So darkness I became

˙.˙.˙

˙.˙

.

.

.

notes4: i can't believe i started writing this shit when i have, like, eleven unfinished projects. but i'm not even sorry. also, expect some craziness because this is fanfiction guys, and if you're looking for something canon you may as well go read the fucking manga.
notes5: and yep, i absolutely suck at writing fighting scenes — it's like a bloody shot in the guts for me — so i just try not to. (i'm the avatar, and you've got to) deal with it.
notes6: do not favorite without leaving a review. i feel sad and guilty and like a bitch asking this, but constructive criticism helps the author. thank you very much.